


Wait for Me

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has always loved his Mr. Frodo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait for Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written December 2004

I cannot recall a time when I did not love Frodo Baggins. From earliest memory he has been a part of my life. Always there, always kind, always patient and graceful and wise. He never talked down to me. Never made me feel small or stupid. Never gave but half an ear to my childish prattle while his attention drifted elsewhere. Whenever he turned those incredible eyes upon me, and cocked his head to one side in that thoughtful manner he's always had, I knew he was really listening to me. How rare that honour was to a wee hobbit from a bustling family, folks always too busy at some chore to be bothered with my likes or some silly treasure I had discovered. But Frodo always made time for me. I've seem him plop right down in the dust, with no regard for the fine clothes he was wearing, all to help me recapture the cricket that had escaped its box, or to admire the perfectly round and shiny stone I'd only just found. Tall he seemed to me back then, like I imagined an elf from one of Mr. Bilbo's tales must be. Fair of face and fair in all his doings. I adored him from the start.

I remember in particular one sunny summer day-- oh, I couldn't have been more than four or five at the time. Ma was more than busy with preparations for her favourite niece's wedding feast. Inevitably, I was underfoot, into everything and as pesky as can be. Patient woman though she was, she was at her wit's end with me that day, and was in the midst of giving me a proper, well-deserved scolding when Frodo stopped by our smial for some reason or other. I don't know who he pitied the more, me or my poor mother, but he pleased us both by generously offering to take me for a walk out to the Party Tree.

It was one of those rare days you'd have to call a jewel. The sky was almost the exact same shade of blue as Frodo's eyes. The week-long heat wave that had tempers short and frayed had passed with the previous evening's rain, and a slight breeze tossed our curls as we meandered along at the snail's pace which was the best my little legs could manage. Flowers bent their heads and nodded as we passed, their heavy fragrance lingering like the promise of honey on our tongues.

“An' tha's a daisy, and tha's a buttercup. Over there's larkspur and asters. An tha' one's... um... lav-- lava-- lavader?”

“Lavender,” Frodo supplied, lightly swinging our clasped hands. “That's not a weed, though, is it?”

“Da says it may as well be th' way it spreads.”

“Oh.” Frodo knelt down for a closer inspection of the unruly lavender cluster. I leaned against his side and waited patiently. “Well,” he mused after careful consideration. “The bees certainly seem to like it... and it looks happy here, wouldn't you say, Sam?”

I nodded vigorously.

“Then I think it has every bit as much right to be here in the meadow as the other flowers do.”

“I think so too!” I crowed. And Frodo bounced to his feet in one smooth motion, scooping me up as he rose to spin me round and round, faster and faster still. Green grass, white clouds and blue sky kaleidoscoped around us. Held safe in his arms while the whole world tilted and twirled, my squeals and his giddy laughter drowned out the disgruntled departure of the bees. Eons passed till, breathless and dizzy, we toppled to land in a tangle of arms and legs and helpless giggles.

“Oh. Oh...” Frodo moaned. “I'm getting too old for this.”

I snorted and drew myself up to perch more comfortably upon his heaving chest. “Now you sound jus' like Da.” I chided. “You'll be wantin' his 'ritis med'cine next.”

“Those are fighting words, Samwise Gamgee!” Frodo roared, and nimble fingers tickled me into quick submission.

I remember the open joy on his face... his easy, fluid movements... his carefree laugh and sparkling eyes... He positively glowed. And I knew then that I would never see a more beautiful being in all of Middle Earth. No fantastic creature of ancient lore could be more wondrous to me. Naught yet that I've seen in all these many years since that long ago day has ever changed my mind.

Finally relenting at my weakly gasped apologies, Frodo abandoned his attack, and helped me rise. Carefully, he brushed bits of grass and twigs free of my hair, and I returned the courtesy. Hand in hand again, we wandered on towards our goal: the very heart of the Party Field, the Party Tree.

“Is it very old?” I wondered, tilting my head back, looking up and up and up into leafy branches that seemed to touch the sky.

Frodo settled himself at the base of the tree, his back pressed against the rough bark. He sighed a happy little sigh and closed his eyes. “Bilbo says it's older than the elves,” he murmured. “That even they remember it standing here full grown, long before there were ever hobbits in the Shire.”

My mouth opened in a little 'O' of awe.

“B-but tha's forever,” I breathed.

Frodo's lashes swept up, revealing fathomless blue eyes. “Yes,' he said. “And that's comforting, isn't it, Sam? Think how much this tree has seen in it's long life, how many seasons it's endured, how many people of many different races have passed by. It's been standing here forever. Waiting... waiting for us to come here on a sunny afternoon and sit beneath it's shade.”

Impulsively, I flung my arms around him, burying my nose in the soft fabric of his shirt. Pipeweed and the light musk of his perspiration enveloped me.

“Mama says that Tansy is promisin' forever to her Jonfred...” I informed his crisp, white collar. “That they'll stand here 'neath this tree and make their plague.”

“Their pledge,” Frodo corrected gently, his breath puffing in my hair. “Yes. That's one of our oldest traditions. Generations of hobbits have courted and wed beneath this tree. As will you, one day, when you settle on a sweetheart.”

“Oh,” I pulled back to meet his gaze, holding him at arm's length with my little hands braced on his shoulders. “But I already know who I'm going to marry.” I stated firmly.

“And who might that be?” Frodo wondered, brow furrowed in thought as his mind sifted through the long list of my playmates.

“You,” I replied. “I'm going to marry you.”

He could have laughed. He could have said “but lads don't marry lads,” or “what a silly child you are, Samwise.” But he did none of those things. His eyes grew slightly rounder and turned a deeper shade of blue than I had ever seen. His lips parted as if he were going to speak, but closed again on a soft, small "oh” of surprise.

“I reckon I'm too young yet,” I allowed. “But I'll grow fast as I can. An' someday I'll be as big as you are, Mr. Frodo. Then we can promise forever... Will you wait for me?”

For a long, heart-stopping moment he didn't blink or breathe. A single tear escaped the corner of one eye.

I brushed the tear away and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “You don't hafta tell me now,” I said, patting his shoulder comfortingly. “Tansy didn't make no promises to Jonfred for nigh on two years.”

He was quiet on the walk back to Bagshot Row. I didn't mind. I was tired too and it was nearing suppertime. I marched right along beside him, holding his hand tight and only skipping a little bit every now and then. I was mighty proud that I hiked the whole way back on my own two feet. Guess I felt it proved I'd growed up some, just like I'd promised I would. Why, he didn't have to carry me even once, though I must admit I would not have refused a piggyback ride... he always did make such lovely pony noises when we galloped down the road.

Ma was waiting at the gate when we got home. She met us with a smile and had a kiss for each of us, brushing her lips lightly across our cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Frodo,” she whispered, and louder then: “Will you no' come in and join us for a bite to eat?”

“Perhaps another time, Mrs. Gamgee,” Frodo said regretfully. “I promised Bilbo I'd finish my translations tonight if he let me escape outside this afternoon.” His hand rested gently atop my head. “I'll see you tomorrow, Sam?”

I nodded. “Tha' you will. Da says I can come up with him to do some weedin' and such like.”

“Goodnight, then,” Frodo smiled, and turned his steps towards Bag End.

I quickly bent and plucked a violet from Da's favourite flower bed, the one beneath Ma's kitchen window, lovingly placed where she could best enjoy it, whether she be inside or outside the smial. “Wait, Mr. Frodo!” I cried, hastening down the path behind him, weary feet temporarily forgotten. As he turned, I gently placed the violet in his hand.

“Thank you, Sam,” he whispered.

And I flung my arms about his waist and hugged him tight, before scampering off in answer to my mother's call.

~*~

We never spoke again of my proposal.

Days blended into days, seasons into seasons, years into years...

Folks 'round Hobbiton grew used to my frequent cries of “Wait for me, Mr. Frodo,” and his unfailing reply, “Come along then, Sam.” They smiled indulgently at the sight we made: the young gentleman of breeding and his scruffy gardener lad. I was his constant shadow and companion. He was my beloved friend.

I reckon I don't have to tell you how the story goes from there: how Mr. Bilbo up and left the Shire... how his old ring came into Mr. Frodo's keeping...

I don't like to think overmuch about those days: all we lost, and all we gained, and how that brought us to this moment...

I stand here on the quay, the Red Book clasped tight in my arms. Seagulls wheel above me, giving voice to my silent cries. I do not turn my eyes from the horizon, though long ago the last glimpse of his ship's sails passed from my sight.

“Come on, Sam, let's get you over to the fire. Your hands feel like ice.”

The voice is Merry's-- or is it Pippin's? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore. I blindly follow where they lead, sit when they bid me sit, and clutch his parting gift all the closer to my breast. His kiss burns hot as a coal upon my brow.

He is gone. Never have I felt so very lost... without a purpose...

I glance down at the book. He poured his life's blood into this story... _his_ story... _our_ story...

Idly, I flick though the pages.

An envelope tumbles out. My name is inscribed upon it, writ in a familiar, flowing hand. I trace each letter with a fingertip, stroking the fine paper as I once stroked a teardrop from his face.

Carefully, I break the seal, and peer inside. A single sheet of paper lies within. As I unfold it, the faint scent of violets wafts up to meet me, and there it is: a pressed flower, yellowed with age and edges crumbling into dust. On the sheet itself, crafted with great care and precision, but one word is written: _yes_.

Yes.

It is the answer to the question I posed so very long ago.

Yes.

He will wait for me.

And I will follow.


End file.
